


that boeing, passing overhead

by rpshoodini



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Late Night Conversations, M/M, Mutual Pining, hisoka: green is sus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27347650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rpshoodini/pseuds/rpshoodini
Summary: “However, thanks to you, I’ve also come to the realization that this setup is indeed quite comfortable once I’ve gotten used to the... hardness, despite my initial skepticism. I believe I’ve understood your heart a little better, Hisoka-kun.”“You’re weird,” was Hisoka’s curt reply before he buried his face in Pen Pen.(In which Homare found Hisoka sleeping on the floor, but instead of carrying him to bed, he put a blanket atop of the younger man’s form, then lay on the floor himself.)
Relationships: Arisugawa Homare/Mikage Hisoka
Comments: 2
Kudos: 73





	that boeing, passing overhead

It must be well past midnight when Homare scribbled the last stanza of his poem and finally set his pen down. A yawn escaped him as he stretched his arms, muscles stiff from hours spent sitting with his shoulders hunching forward. On the desk was this month’s entry for a literary magazine, ready to be submitted to his editor. It was a close call, but not late, by all means. The publisher would have no reason to complain.

Expect no less from the genius poemer Arisugawa Homare, who never once missed a deadline! He sang himself a praise. For a self-proclaimed genius such as himself, the mundane necessity of fixed work hours simply didn’t exist. Inspiration could strike without regard to time nor place, and once he had been blessed with its grace, he would be left with no choice but to pour the strings of proses down on paper until his well of creativity dried up again, waiting for its next opportunity for refillment.

Blinking several times to get rid of the physiological tears that came with eye strain, Homare decided to retire for the night. He gathered his scattered pens, flicked the desk lamp off, and began to make his way through the darkened room, relying on memory alone to locate his loft. Only halfway across the room, he felt his toe colliding with something suspiciously large and tripped, almost letting out an undignified yelp in the process.

With his heart still thumping in shock, Homare squinted his eyes to get a better look. It dawned on him that the lump on the floor was in fact his own roommate, curling in a fetal position in direct contact with the floorboard underneath. The steady rise and fall of his chest deemed it clear that he was in a state of deep sleep. _He could have chosen to pass out on the carpet, at least!_ Homare put his hands on his hips, unimpressed.

“Hisoka-kun, won’t you open your eyes? Don’t sleep on the floor, you’ll catch a cold,” he persuaded, giving his shoulder a light shake.

The man in question didn’t even stir.

Homare breathed out an exasperated sigh. “Come on, Hisoka-kun. Help me out.”

What an unfortunate coincidence that he had used up all of his marshmallows back-up supplies this evening. He had been too preoccupied with his deadlines for the past few days to the point he had no time to spare for his weekly restock. He thought it would be alright to let Hisoka survive one night without his sugary snacks, but from the look of things, it appeared that said judgement ultimately ended up orchestrating his own loss.

Considering how things had transpired, the easiest option for the situation would be to lift Hisoka up, drag him to his loft where he was supposed to be, and drop him there. But in his current condition, Homare wasn’t entirely sure that he could manage. Such rough work was better suited to be Tasuku’s forté, anyway, not his. There was nothing remotely artistic about physical strength in the first place.

Arisugawa Homare prided himself in his many talents, but even then, he admitted that there were things that couldn’t be made possible. Eating fish roe had been the least possible among those things, and ever since he joined the troupe, getting Hisoka to awaken without the aid of marshmallows had been a close second.

Hence with unsteady steps he beelined for the blanket neatly folded on his loft and draped it over Hisoka’s sleeping form, the latter unaware of this act still. Homare stared at his figure. The profile of this silver haired man, slumbering with his beloved penguin plush hugged tightly, looked oddly inviting. Perhaps his exhaustion was partly to blame, but seeing how serenely Hisoka slept, Homare couldn’t help wondering if the floor wasn’t too far different from a bed.

 _It couldn’t hurt to try_ , he mused. In the end, curious as he had always been, Homare gave in to the temptation and crouched down.

As expected, the floorboard was unapologetically cold, chills creeping through his satin pajamas to bite at his bare skin. He shivered. It took him a moment to adjust with the sudden drop in temperature until he could finally lie without tensing up on reflex in a futile attempt to preserve some warmth. _How inconvenient_ , he mused again, but remained in place nonetheless.

His grandparents’ mansion where he spent most of his childhood, notwithstanding the conspicuous imbalance between its grandiose size and the meager number of inhabitants actually residing in there, had never felt cold even in the winter, due to the numerous heaters installed at its every corner. His grandmother’s attitude towards him, on the contrary, had always been as frosty as ice shards, but the presence of his grandfather melted the snow from between the cogs within their mechanical selves.

Staring at the ceiling, he was mildly stunned to find out that it felt so far away from the floor where he was lying, compared to how close it usually seemed from his loft. It had been roughly a year since he first joined the troupe, and consequently, occupied the bed on the right in the room he shared with Hisoka. While he was aware of the good things the company had brought him—his treasured troupemates, a home to belong—the miniscule changes it also brought to his habits had escaped his notice until just now. Truly this theater had changed him in more ways than one.

Homare raised his left hand, slender fingers curling into a fist, grabbing on thin air. Out of his reach, yet clearly there. This ceiling, too, was to some extent similar to the complexity of a human heart.

“Arisu.”

The familiar call of his name interrupted Homare’s train of thoughts. He turned over, vermillion gazing into a pool of emerald which looked as though glimmering in the dimmed room. He let his left arm fell. Creases formed at the corners of his eyes as he felt a grin forming on his lips.

“Oh? You’ve awakened. Hello.”

Hisoka assessed his surroundings and frowned. “What are you doing on the floor?”

“That should’ve been my line!” Homare protested. Not unlike a child, his chin did a slight upward tilt in disapproval. He hummed and added, “however, thanks to you, I’ve also come to the realization that this setup is indeed quite comfortable once I’ve gotten used to the... hardness, despite my initial skepticism. I believe I’ve understood your heart a little better, Hisoka-kun.”

“You’re weird,” was Hisoka’s curt reply before he buried his face in Pen Pen.

“I don’t want to hear that from someone who falls asleep wherever and whenever, no matter the circumstances,” Homare countered without missing a beat. “Speaking of, now that you’ve come to your senses, shall we relocate to somewhere more appropriate, for instance, our lofts?”

Homare waited for a reaction. Hisoka wasn’t cooperating at all.

“Sleepy. The floor’s okay.”

“Hisoka-kun, please refrain from being unnecessarily difficult. You’re going to regret it when you suffer from back pains come next morning.”

“Zzz... zzz...”

For once Homare wasn’t buying the act. “Hisoka-kun,” he repeated, tone firm.

Another minute passed. Hisoka softly groaned. “Fine, I’ll do it,” he mumbled, “for a price...”

The poemer raised a brow. He had heard said exact phrase frequently enough that he had no need for an explanation to figure out what Hisoka was hinting at. He wasn’t very pleased with the conclusion.

“As I’ve told you earlier today, while I do apologize for my blunder at managing the flow of our marshmallow supplies, it’s also about time you learn not to devour everything in your path lest I hide them from your sight,” insisted Homare, ignoring the pout that began to form on Hisoka’s face.

“But we can...”

“...No, we can’t go out in the dead of the night just to satisfy your selfish needs, Hisoka-kun. We can, however, make our trip to the convenient store tomorrow.”

“ _Arisuuu_.” Hisoka made the saddest noise possible. “ _Marshmallowsss_.”

Eventually his wails tugged at the heartstrings of the ever gullible Homare, who spent several next seconds in thought before an idea finally came upon him, whose expression was so unconcealed one could almost see a lightbulb lighting up above his head. “If the lack of marshmallows hinders you from experiencing a pleasant sleep that terribly, then would you rather have me sing a lullaby for you? I assure you I’m quite well versed in the knowledge of classic cradle songs that would surely help color your slumber in sweet dreams,” he gleefully offered.

Hisoka stopped whining at once. “You mean nightmares.”

Paying no heed to his previous jab, Homare proceeded to clear his throat dramatically. “Ahem! Let us begin with one of my favorites. If my memory serves me right, this lovely tune starts with, na, na—hmpph!”

The hand that covered his mouth without as much as a simple warning effectively cut off whatever he was about to say, transforming his words into muffled shrieks. Homare’s eyes widened. His attempt to shoot his roommate a dirty look was rewarded with a hiss.

“Be quiet,” Hisoka whispered, scanning the room. Then, as abruptly as how it began, he wordlessly released Homare from his hold and shifted to face the opposite side, curling to himself.

Homare puffed his cheeks, about to voice his complaints, but upon sensing the foul mood his expression softened. “Hisoka-kun? Is something the matter?” he probed, careful not to sound too meddling.

The younger of the two shrugged, still refusing to face the other. “...Nothing. There was a noise.”

Homare went quiet, blinking repeatedly in rapid sequence. He furrowed his brows in thought, as if trying to listen beyond the silence that embraced their dorm, to no avail. After awhile he finally gave up.

“I didn’t hear anything, though?” he said, puzzlement lacing his features.

A snort. “Arisu is too noisy, of course he can’t hear anything except his own annoying blabber.”

“Pardon?!”

At the same time something caught Homare’s attention and immediately he understood what Hisoka was referring to. A buzzing noise, approaching closer with each of his heartbeat, sounding like it came vaguely from the sky. Not something he heard often, but distinct enough for him to guess.

“Ah, I can hear it now.” Nodding, Homare gestured at the general direction of the roof. “I believe that airplane is currently right above our heads.”

“A boeing,” Hisoka corrected.

“Are they any different?”

“Depends.” He didn’t bother to elaborate.

Homare voiced an inaudible murmur. “I see. You are able to pick airplanes apart simply by listening to their sounds. Your exceptional hearing has left me astonished once again,” he said. He went silent again, and just as Hisoka thought that they had reached the end of their conversation for the night, Homare irritated him some more by initiating another. “That boeing, where could it possibly be going, I wonder.”

“Stop spewing random nonsense,” Hisoka deadpanned.

“How rude! What a commoner considers to be, quote, random, could become, in the hand of a genius, the beginning of a new stylistic era...”

“!”

The sudden jolt that went through Hisoka’s body subsequently sent Homare into alarm as well. “What is it this time? Another boeing?” asked Homare. His expression turned sour. With an accusing tone he pointed out, “I sense that these untimely coincidences have a tendency to occur right before I had a chance to go through with my sentences, Hisoka-kun.”

Hisoka glanced at the door one last time before averting his gaze. “Forget it. He’ll leave soon.”

“...Huh.”

Perplexed, Homare pressed his lips together. 

“Noisy,” Hisoka grunted again.

“But I didn’t say anything!”

“Your thinking process is noisy. Stop thinking.”

Homare’s mouth gaped open, as if about to rebuke his previous statement, but settled down at last. He ended up gazing at the ceiling once more. Being roommates, they had gone accustomed to existing in the same vicinity every night, yet Hisoka’s personal battles were one of the things that Homare felt he would never comprehend. They made quite the pair indeed, a cyborg unable to empathize with others and a man so alien he was almost extraterrestrial. Perhaps it was for that exact reason they worked pretty well as a pair, as strange as it was.

Pondering so, within his mind emerged an image of the crescent moon, mysterious it was, peeking behind a tuft of clouds. A feeling akin to adoration filled his heart to the brim. Homare’s face lit up in delight.

“Ooh! My mind is overflowing with inspiration! A caliginous night, the swaying moon, illuminate...”

“...I’m going to strangle you.”

The nervous undertone in Homare’s ensuing chuckle couldn’t be more obvious. “I merely jest,” he tried humoring his companion, “in truth, I reckon it would be wiser to save this poem for another day, as the fatigue I’ve accumulated from the last hours has begun to get the better of me.”

“If it’s possible for you to not put us under the torture of your cursed poems at every chance you’ve got, then do so from the beginning,” muttered Hisoka.

“That wouldn’t do! One shall not compare an apple to an orange, Hisoka-kun!” Homare retorted. “In my defense, it can’t be helped that for a genius such as I, inspiration comes in unexpected bursts. And just the thought of letting these passing ideas be forgotten, without ever seeing the chance to get immortalized on paper, saddens me. What a tragedy.”

Homare affectionately held him in his gaze, eyes ever so full of wonder, the way one stares at an antique porcelain decoration that their grandmother has warned not to touch. Having met Homare’s grandmother herself, Hisoka could easily visualize how the scene would play out. The naive Homare viewed the world as a playground, where even the fragments of a broken vase would translate into flowery stanzas. Such horrible optimism was a recipe for an impending catastrophe.

Hisoka returned his stare lazily. The fragile touch that landed on his cheek wasn’t accounted for, abrupt to the point Hisoka nearly jerked in reflex.

A smile could be heard in Homare’s voice when he whispered, “but this time, with you as my current muse, I don’t need to worry about those things, since I’m confident that you would be the first thing to enter my view when I rise.”

Hisoka’s first instict was to get rid of the blanket draped over him as it was becoming too warm all of a sudden. Eventually he decided on the better option, that is, to shove Pen Pen in Homare’s face with enough force that he had to retract his hand, then shifted so they were no longer facing each other. Homare’s screech reverberated through their room, followed by a short laughter that sounded like it emerged from deep within the chest.

Homare didn’t attempt to do anything weird after that, but he became way too silent that Hisoka felt obliged to check on him.

“Arisu?”

He received not an answer but muted snores. Homare was positively asleep. 

... _And right after he has been fussing over me to use my bed, on top of that. What a dumbass._

Hisoka peered at his roommate’s sleeping face, gaze trailing from the roots to the tips of his asymmetrical bangs spilled on the floor, a stark contrast against the wooden background. Upon closer observation, he could almost see the rare presence of dark shadows under his eyes. Arisugawa Homare no longer possessed the refreshing boyish air about him, nor did he radiate a mature, sensual aura like Azuma. When he was asleep like this, while much more tolerable as a company, he also looked so lifeless it unsettled Hisoka a little. No, Hisoka had never found him beautiful, but he did find it ironic how the poet spent the majority of his waking hours claiming to be in search for “true art”, yet remained oblivious to the one creation closest to himself.

“Stupid Arisu,” Hisoka voiced his thoughts aloud to the empty room, and let go of his own consciousness before Homare had a chance to start reciting Shakespeare in his dreams.

* * *

“Good morning, Kantoku-kun.”

“Morning, Homare-san,” Izumi returned his greeting brightly, but as soon as she looked at him, her face distorted with worry. “Um, are you alright?”

“Fit as a fiddle! Please rest assured.”

The claim would have sounded more convincing had Homare not said so while dragging his feet across the lounge, wincing with each step. His usual graceful movements were nowhere to be seen, fingers hastily massaging a spot at his lower back instead of making fluid gestures to accompany his exaggerated recital. Moreover, he wasn’t spouting his morning poems. Be it he was feeling as worse off as he seemed or not, but if it managed to tone his unstoppable chipper down, then the situation must be pretty bad, such was the collective thought of his fellow actors.

Being uncharacteristically considerate, the younger students who had been occupying the couch dispersed upon seeing Homare’s approaching figure, making a space for their resident poet. Homare himself gave them a quick, yet somewhat pained, grateful smile, before he literally collapsed into the couch. A relieved sigh was heard. The rest of the actors watched him from afar with mild amusement.

Following a moment of silence Muku was the first to speak, stuttering out, “Arisu-san, did something happen? You seem to be... in pain?”

This innocent question gave rise to a wave of hushed, yet not-so-subtle whispers throughout the lounge. Homare waved his hand. “No, no, it’s nothing of importance...”

“Maybe it’s metamorphosis? Homare is getting old, after all!” Citron exclaimed from the dining table.

“Meta...morphosis?”

Itaru paused sipping on his drink to chew on his lip. There was a victorious gleam in his eyes when he declared, “osteoporosis, isn’t it.”

“That’s what I meant!”

Homare, despite his less-than-perfect condition, was nevertheless fit enough to scowl at the remark. “My, your assumption makes a rather hard blow to a man’s pride, Citron-kun. I’m not so old as to become a disabled.”

Izumi offered him a weak, patronizing smile. “Fascinating idea, Citron-san, however—”

“With the same logic, that old geezer over there should no longer be allowed to do dangerous stunts on stage ‘cause it would take longer for his bones to mend, no?” Banri piped in when he entered the lounge, snitching a toast from the table as he walked by.

“I second that,” Azami casually responded.

Sakyo crumpled the newspapers he had been reading and glared at both of them. “Watch your mouths, brats.”

“Whoops. Someone’s offended,” Banri sneered, then ran off with his toast.

“Senpai, are you coming?”

The call was from Itaru, who had finished with his coffee and had straightened up, dusting crumbs off his suit. He threw a questioning look at his colleague from the far corner of the lounge.

“In a sec,” Chikage offhandedly replied.

Itaru shrugged. “Then I’m off.”

He picked his bag up, high-fived with Citron, then strolled to the door, bidding his goodbye to the others. It soon followed that Chikage glanced at his watch and stood as well, preparing to leave. At the same time, Hisoka was seen entering the lounge, and they inevitably ran into each other. The timing was so flawless it almost seemed like their encounter wasn’t by chance but instead scripted.

“Nice to see you up and about,” greeted Chikage in that unreadable manner of his. He was presented with Hisoka’s frown right away.

“Go to work, Chikage.”

“That’s rich, coming from a freeter.”

“I work part-time.”

“Part-time isn’t nearly as tough as an actual job,” Chikage countered. “That being so, don’t burden others with your selfish desires. If he had to postpone an important meeting with his editor today, that’s definitely your fault, you know.”

Hisoka narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

“I’m talking about our one and only published author, who else,” Chikage went on, mischief masked in the lilt of his voice.

“...What does that supposed to mean.”

He gave him another stare that lingered for longer than necessary. The tension they maintained was broken at last when they heard a honking sound coming from outside the dorm—Itaru, it registered to Hisoka—to which source both turned in unison. Chikage snorted. “Nothing. Just a friendly advice, use the bed later on. See you.” 

With that, he flounced away. Hisoka watched until the last of his green strands disappeared from sight before letting out a yawn. _I’m not you_ , Hisoka thought, and resumed his trip to the lounge. He nearly fell asleep in the corridor, though the instant he caught the sight of a familiar vivid hair color of a certain poet, surrounded by a flurry of students who were busy fussing over him, his sleepiness dissipated, tramped by the notion of earning his daily dose of marshmallows. Quietly, a grin tugged on his lips.

_They are going to buy marshmallows today, as Arisu has promised, and nothing else matters, really._

**Author's Note:**

> (marge holding homahiso/hisohoma in her palm) i just think they’re neat
> 
> title (as this whole fic) is inspired by aliens by kirinji (which happens to be one of my all time fave, which homahiso can have as a theme bcs i adore them). unfortunately, i’m not very good at limiting my stories on just one topic.


End file.
